As it rained,
I stood in a grove
my friends had formed
in the trees, floor lined
with shredded cedar,
an old rocker set
on an uneven stone.
I didn't get wet.
Ancient pine's boughs
caught the rain and left
just the sound of drops,
the scent of wet juniper.
Birds I couldn't name sang
as I waited out the storm.
Some grow more perfect
in their imperfection.
Storm-snapped top
reveals the pale brown
tree's meat, its irregular
cracked interior now
open to the sky.
Though all of the branches
above the break are withered,
all of the branches
below are radiant.
Alive in a way
they've never been before.
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